Wired to You

Chapter 5: Strings Snapping

The cab's brakes squealed like a warning I should've heeded, dumping me curbside under the sodium glow of my apartment building's lone streetlamp.

Eldridge at 9:15 p.m. felt like a held breath—air thick with exhaust and the faint, metallic tang of rain that never quite fell.

Theo's goodbye kiss had been a graze, chaste as a promise, his hand lingering on my elbow like he was anchoring me to solid ground.

"Text when you're inside," he'd said, voice all earnest gravel.

I had—Safe. Night.—but the words sat heavy in my outbox, unread for the ten minutes it took to climb the stairs, key fumbling in the lock like my nerves.

That text from the unknown? I'd screenshot it, heart emoji and all, before deleting the thread.

"Cute date. Be careful with the strings."

Spam bots didn't do poetry; this felt personal, like someone peering through the cafe window, clocking Theo's thumb on my pulse.

Lila? She'd kill for the drama, but her shade was louder, all eye-rolls and whispers.

Marco? Creepier potential, but he'd text dick pics, not riddles.

Or... the Wire? Nah, that was the city's fever dream talking, turning every ping into a phantom wire coiling around my throat.

Inside, the apartment welcomed me with its usual neglect: Sink piled with mugs from yesterday's "writing session" (two lines, drowned in Netflix), fridge humming like a judgmental aunt.

I kicked off my boots, the thud echoing off bare walls I'd meant to "art up" with thrift prints.

Poetry posters, maybe—something to scream I'm more than this grind.

But motivation was a fickle bitch; tonight, it was buried under the weight of Theo's easy smile and the prickle that said easy wasn't free.

My phone buzzed—Theo: Dream sweet. Can't stop thinking about that line: 'Threads pull.'

Wrote one back: 'Yours tangle mine just right.' Followed by a winky emoji that landed somewhere between sweet and sticky.

I typed Aww, poet alert but deleted it, settling on Flatterer. Talk tomorrow? Send.

The read receipt popped instant, three dots dancing like they had secrets.

Absolutely. Pick you up at 7? Real date this time—dinner, no laptops.

Dinner. Strings tightening.

Part of me lit up—Theo was the anti-Marco, the anti-Dad's checklists.

No wandering eyes, no conditional hugs.

But the other part? The one that journaled at 2 a.m. about cages disguised as comfort?

It whispered: Run before he maps your exits.

Mom's voice layered in: Love's wires, tangled.

God, family dinners were therapy bills waiting to happen.

I stripped for the shower, steam fogging the mirror as hot water needled my skin.

Soap suds traced the curve of my hip, the swell of my breast—body I liked in stolen moments, hated in Marco's stares.

Theo hadn't ogled; he'd seen, quoting my words like they mattered.

That was the hook, wasn't it? In a city devouring soft spots, being seen felt like surrender.

Toweled off, I scrolled the group chat while blow-drying my curls into submission.

Lila: Spill on the bookstore boy. He seal the deal or just window-shop?